Meetings and Revelations
by Moiraina
Summary: 'It is about time to grow up, Sirius Black.' (Sirius/Remus, Lily/James) -based on a prompt-


It all starts out of boredom. Sirius miserably sinks deep into the old brown-checkered couch with a pout on his face. He stays there for a minute. Two. Ten. He stands up and glances at the clock. Sits down, stands up again. He grabs a half-done crossword puzzle from the rugged coffee table (and Merlin there is still beer in the fridge!) Seven down: an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do – _boredom_. Eleven across: someone who spoils others fun; Sirius grins wickedly and counts the little squares. Damn, _ProngsMoonyandWormtailareutt erwankers_ doesn't fit.

The boy growls, throwing the crossword puzzle somewhere through the open window (_Stupid bastard, garbage goes in garbage cans!_ yells the street) Sirius doesn't care about garbage cans. Or war. He's young, handsome, energetic, bursting with life and mischief - he's only eighteen, for crying out loud! He has just left Hogwarts (exactly three months, eleven days and 23 hours ago if you are of the precise sort), surely the real life can wait for a little bit longer. This war can wait. He still needs to live a little, to have fun, to make jokes and drink firewhiskey, to throw dungebombs, to hide Moony's favourite copy of _Hairy Snout - Human Heart_ , to call James a ninny, to soak Pete in unspeakable amount of alcohol and watch him do the chicken dance.

Sirius paces back and forth over old, squeaky floorboards of a tiny flat in muggle London. He stops and looks at the clock again. As the needles meet at their old place, on the corner between 11 and 12 Sirius colorfully curses James for having dinner with Lily again (ninny!), Peter for working late (wimp!) and Remus for…well for being too occupied with researching god knows what now in those alphabetically arranged books of his. (party-pooper!)

Stupid fiancé, stupid books, stupid job.

In the midst of this war it seems to Sirius that his friends have somehow changed, that they have forgotten how to have fun, how to play games. That they forgot how to do…well whatever young boys with creative minds and pockets full of muggle firecrackers normally do.

Sirius shakes his head and opens the door. One step outside, a loud crack of Apparation, and seconds later the scent of pine trees and forest, fresh night air and July breeze. A strong inhale, tick of the heart and he shifts, and transforms and blends in with the shadows. It is hard to tell now where the darkness ends and silky, midnight-black fur begins.

The black dog runs. And he misses the old games of tag, rolling in the grass, chasing rabbits under the moonlight, running together with the wolf and the stag. He misses the Forbidden forest, that familiar feeling of soiled earth beneath his paws, a soft litany of wind through his fur. He misses happiness. Safety. Closeness. _Home._ James' loud snoring, steady murmur of Remus' breaths, Peter's wheezing, the sound of chocolate unwrapping, the squeaky laughter, wizard chess, potions essays, cacophony of _Please Evans_ and _No way in hell Potter_, Honeydukes, Zonkos, detentions, jokes, carefree friendship, marauders map...

Suddenly the canine stops and smells the air. It smells rotten and it makes him think of words such as Harm. Death. Blood. Kill. Pain. Hurt. Evil. _War._ Ears prick up when he _hears _them, the jeering assembly of cold voices, broken sounds of Crucios and blood-red screams of horror. The _disgusting_ sound of darkness written in a shiver of mocking breeze.

Death Eaters.

The dog approaches, moving quietly in the shadows and he can _see_ them now, the impeccable circle of Dark Lord's minions gathered around a sobbing human shape in the center. Like vultures. For the very first time the war shows its ugly claws so clearly, so close to Sirius, catching him tightly around the neck. And everything is black. The cloaked figures around the trembling body, the runes written over their silver masks, their hearts beneath the Death-Eater robes, harsh merciless words and _the_ order. Avada Kedavra.

And then there's a twisting tornado of black and green and pain and sick pleasure. And death and joy. And broken screams and triumphant Morsmordres. The body shakes, twitches and falls.

Sirius tries to breathe but the attempt sends a violent storm down his laryngeal tube and into his lungs, threatening to tear up the fragile muscles between his ribs. He stares wide-eyed, unable to blink...and the agony stares right back at him.

'Shit.' the black dog thinks, and he stumbles and trips and curses and screams internally. Every step hurts and he thinks he may even cry. But dogs don't cry. People do, little boys who discover the harsh reality of war do. Little boys who mature and grow up in a matter of seconds do. Little boys who finally understand that this is real and important and here and now. He thinks of books, brooms, cakes, he thinks of the Marauders…James is probably drinking wine now and his clumsy fingers smear the glass, leaving nasty smudge patterns. But Lily treasures every single one of those patterns like they are flecked with the world's purest gold. And she probably looks at him at tells him _'James Potter, you're the clumsiest, most uncultured person in the whole wizarding world. And just so you know, you're washing the dishes tonight.'_ But her smile means 'dearest' when her words say 'clumsiest', 'amazing' when they say 'uncultured', 'love' when she says 'dishes'. And yes, it must be love Sirius thinks.

And then Sirius thinks of books, and alphabet, and cursive handwriting (and those familiar dots over 'I's and 'J's that look more like commas than dots). He thinks of chocolate, and sand, and golden crowns around each iris, and moon and silver scars and for some reason he is dying to know where that newest scar ends...you know, that big one, that starts just below the belly button (Sirius knows, he saw it once totally accidently!) and stretches mysteriously somewhere below the line of _his_ shorts. And Sirius wonders is that also love? Is that silly love thing the reason he finds those obnoxiously corrected crossword puzzles ('the word is _unpresumptuous_, Sirius, not _nifty_') and those irritating balled-up chocolate wrappers so…not annoying? Is love the reason that amused little smile and 'Checkmate, Padfoot, you owe me a drink' send arrows shooting straight to his heart and to his knees and he trembles and tries so hard not to fall down? Because that would be embarrassing wouldn't it? Because well…because…For the love of Merlin, because _he_ is a _friend_…just that. And even worse _he's_ a boy, a _man_…

A man that makes everything else in Sirius' world trivial when he smiles. When he says _Padfoot_. When he brings beer and they play wizard chess. When they talk about spaghettis and post-its and sprinklers. Or just when they sit on Sirius' old brown-checkered couch for hours, communicating only through silence but understanding each other perfectly. Or when _he_ returns to his own home and Sirius feels terribly lonely and miserable, like something important has been stolen from him. The clock ticks counting the hours, the minutes until _he_ returns with that playful smirk of his and 'Mornin' you lazy git.' on his lips. By then Sirius is already awake and he watches as _his friend_ opens the shades and curtains and lets the sun rays in to wake 'the lazy git'. Sirius growls and puts a pillow over his head to block the light. But he smiles. Oh how he smiles.

But he's not home now and it's not morning. Sirius shakes his head. And in that moment the young wizard realizes that he has so much to fight for, so much to lose…more than he has ever hoped to have. No more throwing dungebombs at Slytherins.

Not now. Not ever again.

Sirius runs...and runs...and runs. He knows now, he understands now, and his heart weeps for that poor soul that has just been killed before his eyes, and it weeps for the naïve little raven-haired _boy _who died in the same flash of green light.

Eventually he stops, and transforms back and feels the long-expected weight of responsibility, and determination and epiphany nesting somewhere deep down in the core of his being. The raven-haired _man_ stands in the shadows now with a whole new perspective and a whole new bag of emotions.

_It was about time to grow up, Sirius Black_. The wind whispers as the man sighs heavily and apparates home. And he knows _Remus_ is there now, worrying. Always. Forever. And Sirius knows he'll finally tell the young werewolf everything…about tonight, about death, about life, about _love_.

And then he'll hope.


End file.
